


All You Know

by moments



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, hate me for the ending, lots of poetry talk, no smut as usual what do you guys expect, only because louis and harry are involved, suspension fic, this is like a better version of english class, will i ever write anything longer than 3k probably not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 10:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3286763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moments/pseuds/moments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis and Harry meet in an airport at 3 am; conversation ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All You Know

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I'm off school for a week and have nothing to do but read my favorite poems over and over again all day (and have no one to discuss them with). Hence this dabble. If I can't talk to anyone about these works I figured I might as well let H&L do the talking for me.
> 
> I do not own the people referenced, nor do I own the poems cited. All rights to Walt Whitman and Percy Bysshe Shelley.
> 
> :) Hope you enjoy!

Louis is tired.

It’s something like three in the morning, and he’s sitting on the airport floor, back against a wall facing the windows. He must have nodded off for longer than he’d planned to, though, because there’s an uncomfortable crick in his neck and his entire body feels stiff. He groans softly, stretching his legs out from their criss-crossed position and blinking his eyes open fully.

The terminal hums quietly. Everyone else meant to be on postponed flights is asleep, slow sounds of breathing echoing in the dimly lit air. It’s all very peaceful. Louis lifts his backpack off his lap and sets it down next to him. He tends to have trouble getting back to sleep once he’s awake, and decides instead to pull out his ratty copy of A Catcher in the Rye, the only book he’d brought with him to New York, and opens to a random page.

Outside the snow continues to fall in heavy sheets, and Louis’ eyes linger on their frozen shapes for a moment. It's one of the reasons he’s sitting on the floor of one of JFK’s terminals, the skies having been deemed too opaque to fly through. He doesn’t really mind, though. He loves New York, even the airport is different from London, and an extended vacation seems all too fine to him. He’s in no rush to get back to sitting behind a desk all day.

Yawning briefly, he turns back to his book, eyes brushing over the familiar storyline of Holden in the city he’s about to leave. He’s read the book so many times since falling in love with it during grade school, and now doesn’t go anywhere without it. It’s probably a problem, the way he has all the dialogue memorized and can quote passages upon request. He keeps reading.

Not half an hour has passed before Louis gets a weird feeling, something like an itch he knows he won't be able to scratch away. He looks up, glancing around the terminal. Everyone still seems to be asleep, stuck in some sort of time freeze, and he absentmindedly closes his book and wraps his arms around his chest.

He’s about to close his eyes and try to fall back asleep when he sees someone in his periphery. Turning his head ninety degrees, his eyes meet another pair staring directly into his own.

Upon meeting Louis' eyes, the boy sitting there quickly looks back down at the book in his own hands. He has a head of brown curls mussed with sleep and green eyes that Louis silently pleads will look up again. He’s sitting maybe ten feet away, back against the same wall that Louis’ is pressed to. There’s a backpack that looks duct taped together sitting at his feet and his legs are splayed out in front of him. His neck is bent at a really uncomfortable looking angle as his eyes pass over the words in front of him. He’s quite beautiful.

Louis wants to know what book he’s reading.

He’s being a bit creepy, studying this boy for so long, and looks down at the floor briefly. He's never needed to devise a plan for starting a conversation, even with someone he doesn't know, but as time ticks on lethargically, he feels himself growing restless. He _needs_ to know what book the boy is reading.  

Turning his head to face forward again he looks up at the ceiling and squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s had a love for reading his whole life, from picture books at the age of four to fantasy novels and stories about kings and queens in primary school to the classics once he was in grade eleven. Now, at the age of 23, he rereads a lot, curling up with his forever favorites and feeling like he’s a part of the stories he holds so close to his heart.

Looking back at the boy, Louis notices he hasn’t flipped the page in at least a good five minutes. He'd probably think it strange if that wasn't the very moment the boy shifts his position, allowing Louis a glimpse at the cover.

He recognizes the green instantly, the way the shapes bend and fold over each other.

The snow isn't letting up, and Louis doesn't know how much longer they're going to be stuck here, waiting. The boy's hair spills over the edges of his face a bit, and Louis holds his breath as he watches him lift a slow hand to tuck it behind his ear.

He gives in to temptation, coughing once, quietly, attempting to make it seem unintentional. He's the most obvious person in the world, but the boy looks up, eyes instantly falling on Louis. Maybe he isn't a complete failure.

Louis takes a deep breath, then in a voice just loud enough to stretch the space between them, asks, "Whitman?"

The boy's eyes light up, shifting between Louis and his book, nodding vigorously. "M'a bit of a sucker for poetry."

His voice is slow and syrupy thick. Louis reminds himself to breathe.

"Which one are you reading?"

The boy looks back at his book for a moment, then eyes the space between them. He hesitates, as if unsure, then scoots his way across the floor, dragging his bag behind him until they're a mere few feet apart.

"It's called _When I Heard The Learn'd Astronomer_. D'you know it?"

Does Louis know it? He's spent hours marking up the margin of the page with that poem on it in his own copy of the copy. He's fallen asleep with nothing but the words on his mind; has probably recited that exact poem to his friends while drunk. The universe is laughing at him, giving him the chance to make conversation with a boy radiating ethereal beauty while reading one of his favorite poems over and over for the better part of ten minutes.

"S'one of my favorites, actually," he says.

The boy brightens even more, if possible. Louis can't help the smile that spreads across his face.

"Really?" The boy asks.

Louis nods in affirmation. "Ever since we read it in class in grade ten. It's kind of what got me into reading poetry."

The boy hums. "It's just kind of making me think, you know?"

Louis knows.

"S'that why you've been reading it for the past ten minutes?"

The boy blushes, looking down at his hands.

"I keep trying to like- figure out what it means, I guess. Like, I get the whole idea of the taught world versus the natural world. And I guess I keep trying to find some way to word the way he talks about what matters compared to what doesn't."

"Could you read it for me?"

The boy furrows his eyebrows. "But I thought you said-"

"I know," Louis says, "but I want to hear how it sounds when you read it."

The boy holds Louis' gaze for a moment before drawing his knees up to his chest and leaning the book up against his legs. Slowly, in a raspy voice, he reads.

" _When I heard the learn’d astronomer;_  
 _When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;_  
 _When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;_  
 _When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,_  
 _How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick._ "

Louis closes his eyes.

" _Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,_  
 _In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,_  
 _Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars._ "

Silence.

The quiet that follows is fitting, and Louis sits there, eyes still shut, head spinning a million miles an hour. There are some people, he thinks, that are made to be listened to. He's always been talkative and loud, while also having moments of subdued silence, but this boy, god, he thinks he could listen to this boy talk forever.

"You there?" That same voice asks, the one that's been filling Louis' head with puffs of blue gray smoke.

He opens his eyes. "I'd hate to be the astronomer," he says, for lack of better response.

"I guess I'm with you on that." The boy pauses, considering. "I think I know what he means, though, about having to learn through pure experience of the natural world rather than by sitting in a lecture hall. But, at the same time, there's only so much you can learn firsthand."

"It'd just suck to be someone like that, who does everything he can to be a proper teacher but doesn't realize his words are empty."

"That and no one really cares much."

Louis knows, he knows all too well. He grins. "I never liked school."

The boy wrinkles his nose. "Who did?"

"I mean, you can study the effects of a blizzard and the damage it can cause on a city this size and never know the true effects of the real life blizzard until it hits."

The boy laughs. "Good example."

Louis smiles, watching the way the boy shifts slightly to look out the window at the continuous snowfall. He wants to trace his fingers over the curve of his jaw.

"I'm Louis," he says, breaking the peaceful silence.

"Harry," the boy echoes.

"Well, Harry, what brings you to the glamorous floors of JFK at three in the morning?"

"That," he says, nodding at the windows.

"Where're you headed?"

"LA, actually. Just wasn't really in the mood to run across an airport to find the American Airlines terminal when there was a perfectly good wall with perfectly good looking boys sitting against is right here. Life's too short," Harry says, grinning cheerfully.

Louis sucks in a breath, holding it before exhaling slowly. "Why LA, then?" He asks, resolutely choosing not to address the last part of Harry's statement.

"I've got some mates out there with some studio time booked." He shrugs. "Nothing big really, just realized I need the time to fuck around and not really worry about things, you know?"

Louis knows. "Yeah. That's why I'm here, actually. New York is a nice place to disappear to sometimes."

Harry nods in understanding. "That's a bit appropriate then," he says, gesturing to the book in Louis' hands.

"Oh," Louis says, suddenly aware of the correlation between the character Salinger put through a journey in the city, and his own story. "Didn't even realize, but I guess you're right."

"Why New York, though? Like, there are lots of cities, lots of places," he trails off slightly at the end, as if waiting for Louis to jump in.

"I've got some mates here too, actually," he says in playful mock of Harry, reaching forward to boldly poke at his stomach. "Liam and Zayn are in some new thing that just opened off Broadway. Near dragged me over the Atlantic before I compromised and told them I didn't mind getting away from work to come visit them."

"Oh. Wow, that's huge, congrats to them. Is it anything I'd know?"

Louis has no clue what kind of plays Harry would or wouldn't know.

"Probably not. I don't even distinctly remember the name if I'm honest. They're decent actors, though, and I still hate them for leaving me all alone in London, so I make it my duty to be able to annoy them in person as often as I can."

Harry laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard, even though he's probably off by a longshot, and then clasps his hand over his mouth, eyes wide. Louis listens to the way his laughter hangs in the air, ringing at the edges before fading out. He near pries Harry's hands off his mouth. He wants to be properly trained in the art of humor if it means coaxing that kind of bright laughter out of him again.

When the air between them is silent again, Harry asks, "are we contradictions?"

"What?"

"I was just thinking, like, if the astronomer is the bad guy, does that mean two people like us who love to read are just contradictions to the way it would work?"

Louis is not awake enough for a conversation of this weight.

"I guess- I guess sort of. But not in a bad way. You said it yourself, there's only so much you can learn firsthand, and I don't think reading is too bad a second hand option. Especially in our world full of distractions."

Harry pause in contemplation, head gears spinning rapidly before slowing to a heavy thrum.

"But- I don't know. Doesn't the poem kind of preach against the false reality we've setup?" Harry asks, sounding genuinely worried.

Louis takes a minute to contemplate.

"Well, I think it speaks more against education, and the way we're taught. Like, you can read a poem and then spend hours analyzing it for a grade, or you can read a poem and not think of it again until happenstance. We don't really have original thoughts, but when we do they don't derive from useless information that's poured into our heads. Reading opens us to worlds we might not have dreamed up ourselves and broadens our knowledge of the simple world, the natural world. What's the point of analyzing a poem if it isn't going to matter beyond the moment you read it?"

Louis watches as Harry absorbs what he's said, wishing he had a way of putting it into words that made sense outside of his own head. He's always been a bit obscure when he speaks, especially about the things he loves so deeply.

Apparently, Harry thinks differently.

"Everything makes more sense when you say it. Teach me your ways, I beg you."

Louis laughs. "Far from it, Curly. Though I do appreciate a good ego boost from time to time."

Harry swats at his leg languidly for lack of a better response and pretends to pout for a minute. It doesn't work, and he knows it.

"I _live_ to please you."

Louis rolls his eyes jokingly and looks over at where Harry is slumped against the wall, body heavy with tiredness. He wants to run a hand through his disheveled hair, maybe braid some of the curls together, but he keeps his hands to himself.

He's only known him for half an hour and already they're joking as easily as if it's been lifetimes. This boy has Louis rethinking the laws of personal space, wanting nothing more than to feel his skin against his own.

Harry yawns, eyes starting to droop sleepily as Louis checks his phone and sees the numbers 3:43 blinking back at him.

"You should sleep," he tells him. "Might be stuck here a while longer."

Harry looks at him with sleepy eyes, smiling dopily before setting his backpack down next to Louis' leg, and laying down with his head resting against it.

"What's your favorite poem? Or one of, since I know I definitely couldn't pick just one," Harry asks him, voice laced with sleep.

Louis thinks for a minute. It's a huge question, in all honesty, and Harry's eyelids are growing heavier with each passing second. He feels himself running out of time.

"Probably Music, When Soft Voices Die by Percy Shelley," he decides finally.

Harry hums. "Sounds nice. Could you recite it? Talk me to sleep, please?"

Louis doesn't stand a chance.

"Close your eyes," he instructs, watching as Harry's eyes slip shut almost instantly. The whole room is still washed in the pale reflection of poor fluorescent lighting, and the snow keeps falling incessantly beyond their sanctuary of an airport. He shakes his hands out and places his book down next to him before returning his focus to the waiting rhythm of Harry's breathing. He keeps his mind set on nothing but that as he speaks.

" _Music, when soft voices die_

_Vibrates in the memory._

_Odours, when sweet violets sicken_

_Live within the sense they quicken._ "

He looks down at Harry, at the way his hair is fanned out across his backpack, and the way his eyelashes flutter before settling to hover just above his cheekbones. He pauses a moment too long and captures the image to memory, storing it at the front of his brain where it will always be accessible.

" _Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,_

 _Are heaped for the belove'ds bed._ "

There's so much he thinks he could say. So much to say and no time to say it all.

" _And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone._ "

Harry's sleeping form hold the kind of beauty photographers and painters and artists of all kind spend years trying to capture. He watches him until he's positive his breathing has evened out and he's asleep. Sometimes words are too much. Sometimes they're not enough. He breathes through his nose as he feels his own eyes starting to droop, letting the milky white of Harry's skin be the last thing he sees before they close.

" _Love itself shall slumber on._ "

-

When Louis blinks awake Harry is gone.

He's sharing the wall with no one but himself, and when he stares ahead there's a wall of moving legs blocking his view of the windows.

The floor is cold and sunlight floods the room, breaking the spell and leaving Louis caught in a place he's never been before. His tongue tastes faintly of powerful words, and there's a voice over the loudspeaker announcing that all passengers on rescheduled flight D384 to London should prepare for boarding. Dusting himself off and making sure his book is stowed safely in his bag, he stands, facing the sea of people and all their respective destinations.

Taking a step forward he joins them, caught in the fray once more as he pushes his way towards the gate, leaving the wall behind. There are so many hanging thoughts left behind that he knows might never dissipate completely. There's a roar in his ears louder than the crowds, and as he swings his bag over his shoulder, he knows he's ready to go home.

Suddenly New York doesn't seem so magical. Maybe it never was.

Maybe it was only that he wanted to believe.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could say the last line was my own doing, but I borrowed it from Bukowski's [**Inverted Love Song**](http://mythemia.deviantart.com/journal/quot-inverted-love-song-quot-by-charles-bukowski-306180074), all credits to him.
> 
> Comments and kudos greatly appreciated!!
> 
> Talk to me on twitter @disasterstyles :~


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